Find Me When I'm Lost

by Cheryl A Head

  “We don’t think so. We’ll know for sure when we complete our investigation,” Charlie countered.

  Fairchild joined them, standing at the row of seats and looking around the lobby. He seemed impatient and uncomfortable in the setting.

  “How is your investigation going, Ms. Mack?” he said, finally sitting. “Oh, and by the way, thank you for the flowers you sent to the service.”

  Good old Judy.

  “You’re welcome, sir. As I was telling Pamela this afternoon, we have a few new leads.”

  “Pam mentioned a name. Caesar Sturdivant I believe.”

  So she didn’t wait to tell her father. Charlie watched the lawyer copy the name in his portfolio.

  “Yes. He’s incarcerated in Toronto. My associate, Mr. Rutkowski, has arranged a meeting with him. Mr. Fairchild, I know this may be awkward, but Pamela tells me you’re convinced Franklin is guilty of murdering your son.”

  “All the evidence points to him.”

  “It’s mostly circumstantial evidence, sir, and we’re interviewing Peter’s known associates who might have additional information.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing so far,” Charlie admitted. “But we’ve found inconsistencies we want to further investigate.”

  Fairchild gave a look Charlie couldn’t quite read. It might be either boredom or concern.

  “You know Franklin says he’s innocent,” Charlie offered.

  “Does he know who killed Peter?”

  Charlie hesitated a second, which she hoped Fairchild didn’t notice. “No. He says he was knocked unconscious. When he came to, Peter was dead.”

  The lawyer’s smirk showed skepticism. Fairchild’s stare seemed empathetic.

  “Given your relationship with Franklin, Ms. Mack, this may be awkward for you.”

  Fairchild used Charlie’s words to turn the table on the conversation. It pissed her off.

  “I’m trained to separate my personal feelings from facts and circumstances, Mr. Fairchild.”

  “And we both know how hard that is to do, don’t we?” he said.

  Charlie didn’t respond. She decided she disliked the man. He was too smug, too sure his power and prestige made him smarter than everyone else. Charlie mentally added Pamela to a different category. She had turned out relatively normal given the arrogance of her father.

  “I appreciate that you’re doing your best to pacify my daughter. I’m sure you both find it hard to believe that Franklin could be capable of this kind of violence.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Fairchild. I don’t believe Franklin could commit such a crime. However, I’ve learned through experience that any man, under the right circumstances, is capable of anything.”

  Fairchild’s nod suggested he didn’t get Charlie’s dig to his own culpability. He turned to his lawyer, reviewing a document on an opened laptop, already focused on the particulars of business. Sharon Fairchild was more likely involved in the details of mourning. Charlie wanted to be away from them so she moved to a seat closer to the front desk. The receptionist, a middle-aged black woman, made eye contact and they both smiled.

  Charlie was a business owner herself, but she knew her priorities were different. Like other industrial cities, Detroit was born of twentieth-century manufacturing, and fueled by the wealth-dreams of white men like Stanford Fairchild who had imagination, ambition, and privilege. The loom of capitalism wove a tapestry of metropolises where laborers had flocked, hoping to live the American dream. A hundred years later, in most of these urban centers a bevy of black women were the gatekeepers of that dream. They were corporate presidents, members of city councils and school boards, and principals of schools—like Charlie’s mother. They were social workers, librarians, teachers, homemakers, even private investigators. These women worked to maintain the equilibrium of working-class microstructures sprung from larger systems that were often rigged against the little guy.

  Charlie studied the backs of Fairchild and his lawyer. More and more she believed Franklin’s suspicions. Like Franklin, Pamela might be just a pawn in her father’s life-and-death game of chess.

  The swoosh of the sliding doors shifted Charlie’s attention to the entrance. She stood when Captain Travers, in uniform and followed by two of his lieutenants, stepped into the lobby and stopped. The three handsome men were a recruitment poster for the Detroit Police Department. Travers stared at Charlie for a few seconds, and then scanned the room until he saw Fairchild. He looked at Charlie again and gestured with the tilt of his head. They moved to the side of the room.

  Travers leaned in so he wouldn’t be overhead. “What’s going on? I got a call from the chief’s office.”

  Charlie pointed toward Fairchild. “His daughter is upstairs with Franklin. We weren’t granted access. He’s not used to hearing ‘no.’”

  Travis rolled his eyes. The pressure he’d received from higher-ups in the past week showed in the circular lines at his mouth and under his eyes. Charlie didn’t really like Travers, and vice versa, but each understood Detroit’s hierarchies.

  “Okay. Let’s go. I’m taking you all up with me.”

  # # #

  When they arrived on the hospital’s fourth floor, they walked through service units demarcated by signage and carpeting of different colors. Decals on glass doors announced the cardiology unit, pediatrics, internal medicine and infectious diseases until they arrived at the wing for high-security patients. A long hallway led to Franklin’s room. Outside the door, a patrol officer sat upright in a metal chair, his back straight and his eyes scanning the group approaching him. Detective Wallace leaned against the wall. Both detective and officer stood at alert when they spotted Travers, and the other two DPD muckety-mucks. Wallace and Charlie shared a wary glance.

  “Status report, Wallace,” Travers ordered.

  “His wife is in there with him,” Wallace said.

  “You frisked her before she went in?”

  Both the patrolman and detective showed guilty looks.

  “Uh, no,” Wallace said. “She refused to be frisked, but we did take her bag.”

  The patrol officer removed the giant bag from the arm of his chair and let it dangle on his hand as proof.

  “How long has she been in there?”

  “Maybe a half hour.”

  Travers knocked on the door, then held it open as Fairchild, Charlie, Wallace, and the two lieutenants entered. Wallace signaled to the patrolman to remain alert. Fairchild gave a similar signal to his lawyer.

  Franklin sat upright on the hospital bed with Pamela next to him. They had sad faces, red-rimmed eyes, and were holding hands. Franklin caught Charlie’s eye for a second, and Fairchild went into immediate “I’m in charge” mode.

  “Franklin, how are you doing?” His voice boomed through the room.

  “I’m okay,” Franklin said, adjusting the covers around the waist of his hospital gown. He didn’t make eye contact with Fairchild. Travis stood near the empty side chair staring down at Franklin. The two lieutenants stood near the door with arms crossed over thick belts heavy with the tools of their trade.

  Pamela left her perch to stand next to her father near the foot of the bed. Charlie purposely moved up to block Fairchild’s view of Franklin.

  “I understand you have, so far, declined to provide us a written statement, Mr. Rogers,” Travers said.

  Charlie felt Fairchild shift behind her to see Franklin’s face. She held firm in her spot and hoped Franklin understood the nearly imperceptible shake of her head, which meant now was not the time to come clean. Charlie didn’t think he’d confided in Pamela. She looked sad, but not stunned. The issue was cleared up when she spoke.

  “We’ve secured an attorney for Franklin,” Pamela said. “Upon her advice, he won’t be answering any questions or signing any statements.”

  Charlie looked over her shoulder. Pamela had squared hers and taken a step away from her father.

  “What’s this about an attorney?” Fairchild asked, v
oice raised. His tension surged through the room, and Charlie felt it against her back. There would be another big argument in the Fairchild home tonight.

  The head nurse cut off any additional conversation when she opened the door and asked everyone to clear out. Travers and his men left immediately. Pamela moved to Franklin’s side, and the husband and wife entwined hands. Fairchild stared at the two for a moment and turned to leave. Charlie fell into line behind him.

  After a few minutes, Pamela joined the group in the hallway where Fairchild was barking orders to his attorney and Travers. Charlie pulled Pamela aside.

  “Is it true you’ve retained a lawyer for Franklin?”

  “He had the name of someone, and we called her.”

  “May I ask the name?”

  Pamela pulled out her phone, scrolled, and showed Charlie the screen.

  “Serena Carruthers.”

  “You know her?” Pamela asked.

  “I’ve met her. She’s a good lawyer.” And a force to be reckoned with, Charlie decided not to add.

  “Franklin said they used to date,” Pamela added. “He also said she has a reputation for winning cases and taking down those in power. He thought we might need that if he’s going to get the police to look for the real killer.”

  “Did Franklin say anything more to you about that night, or any ideas he might have about who set him up?”

  “No. He said he knows you and I, and this new lawyer, will do all we can to save him. He called us his three musketeers.”

  If Serena Carruthers is going to be involved, it will be more like Diana Ross and the Supremes, Charlie thought.

  Chapter 15

  Don and Detective Li arrived at the Ontario Correctional Institute at 10:15. Li’s patrol car gained them access to a lot closer to the building than other visitors. Don watched as Li locked his sidearm and Don’s Ruger in the trunk. Although he had to fill out visitor information, provide fingerprints, and go through a full-body scan, Don was otherwise expedited through the process. He and Li were taken to a ten-foot-square room for their visit with Caesar Sturdivant who, after a twenty-minute wait, arrived escorted by a corrections officer and his attorney.

  Sturdivant was a dark-skinned man built like a sturdy rectangle. There was no clear delineation of torso and legs from his thick head to his cuffed ankles. He wore short-sleeved orange prison-issue, and had an array of tats on both arms and his neck. Sturdivant, realizing he didn’t know either of his visitors, looked between the two with curiosity. He gave most of his attention to Don, who stared without breaking the gaze. Don mentally checkmarked Sturdivant’s fit to the man seen in the grainy security footage at Peter Fairchild’s loft.

  The guard shackled Sturdivant to a table-bench combo secured to the floor.

  “I’ll be right outside,” the guard said in a no-nonsense tone. “Hit the light switch when you’re ready to leave. Or, uh, if there’s any kind of trouble.”

  Don had been leaning against the far wall and took a seat at the bench. Li opted to remain standing.

  “Who are you guys?” Sturdivant asked with darting eyes. “Did somebody send you?”

  “Who would send us?” Don asked, shifting quickly to police mode.

  “Wait a minute . . .” the attorney raised his hands to block the question.

  Li decided to take charge. “I’m Detective Li with the Toronto Metropolitan Police. This is Don Rutkowski. He’s a private investigator from Detroit.”

  At the mention of Detroit, Sturdivant flinched and caught Don’s eyes, but this time only for a second.

  “Rutkowski wants to question your client about an open police investigation in Detroit.”

  “I don’t have to answer any questions,” Sturdivant growled. His lips tightened and he crossed his beefy arms on the table. Don looked at a bejeweled crown tattoo circling the prisoner’s bicep, guessing it might have taken six hours of ink work. The prisoner saw Don’s interest in his artwork and released his arms into his lap.

  “Okay, but you and your attorney did say we could come and have a conversation,” Li said. “That’s why we’re here. So will you listen to what Mr. Rutkowski has to say?”

  The attorney leaned over and whispered something in Sturdivant’s ear. The prisoner scowled at Don. “Go ahead,” the attorney said.

  “Caesar, your fingerprints were found at a crime scene,” Don began. “Where the member of a prominent Detroit family was murdered.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “You haven’t even heard the details.”

  “I don’t need to hear no details. I don’t know nothing about a murder.”

  Don sat quietly for a few seconds, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Sturdivant sat forward in his seat, staring at the paper as Don pretended to read it.

  “I’ve been working with the Detroit police. The man who was murdered is Peter Fairchild. It says here there’s security footage of you leaving the scene of the homicide.”

  “Naw. That ain’t right,” Sturdivant protested. “I never set foot in that building.”

  “Who said anything about a building?” Don asked.

  Sturdivant’s eyes widened and his jaw moved but he didn’t speak. His attorney shifted positions in his seat.

  “They saw you in the vestibule, Caesar,” Don chided. “That’s that little hallway outside the elevator. There was a camera!”

  “That Frank guy did it. That’s what the police say!”

  “That’s before Franklin told them his side of the story. That’s before your fingerprints were found on the windowsill. And that’s before Peter’s family hired me and my partners to find the real murderer.” Don’s voice got louder with each declaration.

  Sturdivant began to rise from the bench, and Don rose, too. The attorney put a hand on his client’s shoulder, pushing him back into his seat. Li moved to the table.

  “I need a few words alone with my client,” the lawyer asserted.

  # # #

  Forty-five minutes later Sturdivant’s attorney signaled the guard. Don and Detective Li, who had been cooling their heels in the hallway, returned to the interrogation room.

  Sturdivant’s demeanor was changed. His shoulders, previously tense with anger, had given way to sloped resignation. He kept his head down, and his hands rested at his sides.

  “My client wants to make a statement,” the attorney said somberly. “But he wants assurance the information he provides will allow him to receive consideration.”

  “What kind of consideration?” Detective Li asked.

  “He will want to have his cooperation reflected in the charges brought against him. He may also need future protection.”

  “Protection?” Don asked.

  “His information will, uh, cause the ire of some powerful people.”

  “Look,” Li said. “I can’t make any deals without understanding the nature of the information Mr. Sturdivant can provide. Is this related to the crime in Detroit that Mr. Rutkowski mentioned?”

  The attorney nodded his affirmation.

  “Well, that further complicates any negotiations with Mr. Sturdivant. We’ll have to involve the Detroit police and the prosecutors in that jurisdiction.” Li looked toward Don.

  “That’s Wayne County in Michigan,” Don said. “The prosecutor will need to feel Sturdivant’s information will lead to an indictment.”

  “We understand,” the attorney said. “So I’ve advised my client to give a partial statement, which will provide the nature of the information and help you get the permissions you need.”

  All three men turned to Sturdivant. He hadn’t raised his head from his chest since they’d returned to the room. He looked up now. First at his attorney, then to Don.

  “I was at the apartment where that Fairchild guy was killed. I was hired to help, but I didn’t shoot the guy. Somebody else did.”

  “And you know who?”

  Sturdivant nodded.

  “And t
hat person paid you to help with the crime?” Don said with a sneer.

  “Nope. Somebody else paid me.”

  “And who was that?”

  “You’ll have to cut me a deal to find out,” Sturdivant said defiantly.

  # # #

  Don was awakened by the motel phone’s blare, which seemed to reverberate even after it went silent. Sitting up with a start he looked at the red lights of the clock. 1 a.m. His mobile sat quietly on the side table. The green light showed it was on and fully charged.

  “What the hell.” Don grabbed the receiver just as a second ring sounded. “What?”

  “Rutkowski, it’s Detective Li. Get dressed. I’m downstairs and we need to drive to the prison.”

  “Why?”

  “Sturdivant was attacked. He’s alive, but he’s scared and wants to talk now.”

  Don’s time in the Marines had taught him a few life lessons, which remained with him. One was how to take a five-minute shower. Another was laying out socks in your shoes for a quick dress and, most importantly, keeping your gun close to your line of exit. He had dressed, showered, and swished mouthwash in less than five minutes. He didn’t have time to think about packing anything, so he hung the “do not disturb” sign on the door handle.

  Li turned on the car’s top lights as soon as Don was buckled in, then zipped into the sparse traffic. “That coffee in the holder is for you,” he said.

  “God bless you,” Don responded, taking a sip. “So what happened?”

  “I got a call from the lawyer. Just after midnight a guard found Sturdivant lying on the floor of his cell in a pool of blood. He was knifed. They do bed checks every two hours, so somebody attacked him between ten and midnight.”

  “Did they question his cell mates?”

  “He’s in a single cell. The two men on either side of him say they didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Sturdivant is in the infirmary?”

  “Yes. But he’ll be transferred to a nearby hospital as soon as possible. He may be gone before we get there.”

  “Damn.”